


My dear boy,

by ViolentVioletEye



Series: Schlatt is Tubbo's Father [5]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, For the first two chapters - Freeform, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Its going to get rough, Mind Manipulation, Niki and Quackity and Fundy and Schlatt are only referenced, Nostalgia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad Toby Smith | Tubbo, Sorry Not Sorry, Starvation, Then the last chapter will be all comfort I SWEAR, They each have one speaking line i guess, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, Tubbo basically fucking quarantines himself, Villain Wilbur Soot, except for schlatt, sorry tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27244459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentVioletEye/pseuds/ViolentVioletEye
Summary: your enemies are not who you think.
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot
Series: Schlatt is Tubbo's Father [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980382
Comments: 351
Kudos: 1199





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> it's more than you can handle, isn't it?

Tubbo had not gone into work in two weeks. He had left the White House without even packing a damn bag. The only thing he left with was that book, which wasn’t even _his._ It was Fundy’s. But he only had it for maybe two days before the fox came around. He wasn’t there for the book. He was there to try and talk to him, about _him._

“Tubbo, you should give Schlatt a chance—”

And then Tubbo flung the book into his face and he slammed his door shut. He didn’t open the door for anybody else after that. He didn’t open it for Quackity, even when the man promised to not even bring up ‘you-know-who.’

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay, kid!” He had spoken to him through the door, though Tubbo never replied. “I wanna make sure you’re at least taking care of yourself! It's been what, three days? You gotta leave at some point, kid!”

Yeah, yeah, realistically he was right. But they underestimated Tubbo’s ability to ration his food. And make secret, quick nightly trips to the gas station that was a twenty-minute walk away from his house. He was in the more rural part of L’Manberg, having built it forever ago when the idea of a nation was still just a hopeful dream. It had been a tent at first, and then a hut. And then it grew and grew. But he hadn’t spent much time in it when the war started, and he had such little time between the uneasy peace treaty and the sudden election that he hadn’t really spent any time in it. And that showed with his food situation when he arrived. Everything but his crackers had spoiled. His bread was very hard, so hard he wondered if it would be considered a weapon if he swung it at the next reporter to show up on his fucking doorstep.

Yeah. Reporters. Because he didn’t have enough _shit_ already.

Somehow, it had gotten out. Somehow, people had gotten _pictures_ of him backing the President against the wall, of punching his chest in a grief-powered craze, and then collapsing into his arms like a sack of potatoes as he cried and cried. They had figured out what he had been saying, too. He heard rumors that it had been the guard on duty that night, but honestly, it could have been anyone in the White House. He had been screaming at the top of his lungs, demanding to know a truth he knew he would never be prepared for, so why not get it over with _now?_

Now, he wished this had never happened. As he laid on his couch curled up against the right armrest, he wished he had never gotten that book from Fundy. As thick curtains were constantly closed in front of his windows, he wished he had never gone to the fox in the first place. As the radio on his coffee table in front of his couch and living room chairs told him every rant about this whole situation from any radio show host and newscaster, he wished he hadn’t been so curious. He wished he hadn’t put those pictures side by side and recognized the damning resemblance as his entire world went up in flames around him. As he ate another cup of noodles, he wished he hadn’t realized Schlatt was lying to him about such ridiculous things, the important things that would bring him into a better life such as caring for him as his horns grew in.

He especially wished his horns had never grown in. He wished he was human. He wished President J. Schlatt wasn’t his _dad._

It had leaked out maybe… just hours after Quackity had visited him. Luckily by then, he had built up a good bit of food from his trips to the gas station. Unlucky for him, those nightly trips had brought attention to him from the workers of the gas station, and the fact that he was in that area of the city reached the news very quickly. It didn’t take a genius to find that his house was very close to the gas station, so by his fourth morning of being home, reporters were on his doorsteps, shouting questions to his windows and even going as far as to try and find their way in. He never answered, and always remembered the sword he had under his bed. He didn’t want to pull it out, but he was on his last fucking nerve. He had _been_ on his last fucking nerve for weeks now.

It didn’t help his case with the public’s eye that, just days before, he had been living in the White House and had seemingly just moved back home overnight. It made the news they had received so much more likely, more _damning._

_Is Tubbo, Secretary of State, the son of President Schlatt?_

That was the tamest title. Others called him a Founding Father. Others called him a war hero. They called Schlatt a tyrant, a self-proclaimed Emperor though Tubbo couldn’t, for the life of him, ever remember Schlatt declaring himself as Emperor. He seemed to even hate the title President. So why were they calling him such a thing, when it wasn’t even true?

And why did Tubbo fucking care?

Thoughts that slipped through when he wasn’t careful, and it made him so disgusted. He had vomited a few times, but now his stomach was becoming too used to the shudder of disgust that would shake his body. He was out of tears. He wasn’t sad. For once, he was angry. But at the same time, he was so numb. He registered the words from those rants, but he never really soaked them in. Everything felt so dull and gray here in this house, which felt too big and too empty. He and Tommy always used to sleep over at each other’s houses, though they did it at Tubbo’s more often than not. Tommy had never been happy with his house. He was always changing it, always rearranging, adding, and taking to the building and the decor. He had never been content with it.

Tommy was never content with anything, Tubbo realized. He hadn’t been content with staying out of the bloody part of the war. Tubbo had more nightmares of his best friend’s injuries than his own, and he had gotten plenty himself. He had never been happy with failing that duel and had given up one of the most important things to him just to give them freedom. And even then it had never been enough. When the election began, he had to be Vice President. He had to stay by Wilbur’s side. He had to be his right-hand man. He was never content with his house, not in the way Tubbo was content with his own. He was never content with his surroundings and what he had, not in the way Tubbo had been content with his bees. He was never content with what the present had, he could never slow down, he could never see the people around him, and in doing so—

He was never content with Tubbo.

He could hear their past selves in these walls. It was like they had never left. In a way, it was almost… Nostalgic. And Tubbo felt so bitter and sad at the same time when he thought of it that way. He was too young to be so nostalgic. He wasn’t an old soul. He hadn’t been around for updates and updates, like CaptainSparklez, like SkyDoesMinecraft, like Sethbling and BajanCanadian and… And all of the greats that had done so much. All of the veterans that had seen war, peace, death, life, victory, and loss.

But that last bit was a lie, wasn’t it?

He could hear their laughter. Their stifled giggles even though they had never had a reason to be quiet. Tubbo had never had (he winced) any parents to sneak around whenever they left his room to get snacks in the middle of the night. He could see their phantoms, ghosting around corners, hopping onto the couch, sliding down the railing Tubbo had added to the stairs for that purpose alone—he could taste the food they had eaten so late, wrapped up in the same blanket together, bumping shoulders and giggling like school girls as they shared secrets they had never told anyone else.

Or at least, Tubbo had never told anyone. He wasn’t sure if Tommy shared the same sentiment.

He could see Tommy’s blue eyes, his bright smile, his loud shrieky laugh that Tubbo always had to shush through his laughing fits, the waterfall of giggles that would bubble out of their mouths as they found a new private joke or relived an old one. Here in these walls, it was like they were kids again. Here, it was like they had never left. It was as if the children in them knew they would be murdered in that war that sprouted when Dream and his men came to their doorstep and Wilbur was too proud to just bow. So they had left Tubbo’s and Tommy’s souls without ever letting them know, and they had hidden themselves in these halls where it was safe with memories of a boyhood Tubbo had only briefly experienced. It was like they were waiting for them to return, to come back when it was all safe, and they relieved their fondest memories in the meantime.

Tubbo felt like a stranger in his own home. He felt like a stranger in his own _body._ He couldn’t remember the last time he had truly felt happy since those days and nights spent in this house, sleepovers he had never experienced because before this budding country, it had been the wilderness, and before that, an orphanage he would rather forget. Try as he might, no matter how many hours he picked his brain, he couldn’t find a memory where he had truly been happy. Where it had just been him and Tubbo. But he could pinpoint the exact moment when everything good that Tubbo had ever felt had suddenly been ripped away from him. It was the moment the war had started, where tensions between Wilbur and Dream finally broke. Tubbo had to fight just to get a shred of that old life back, only to lose that shred too, fluttering like a lost cloth in the wind.

And he was too tired to chase after it. He was so tired, he realized, as he laid on that couch.

When was the last time he had eaten? When was the last time he had had something to drink? Niki had left some bread and pastries on the ledge of his bedroom window, along with a canteen of chai tea. His favorite. She was the only one who could make it right. The canteen sat on his kitchen counter, cold. The pastries and bread were stale, still in the bag that had fallen onto its side at some point, right beside the canteen. He still had no idea how she had gotten it there considering it was on the second floor and there weren’t any trees around—he was pretty sure it had been cut down to give supplies to the war, and hell, maybe he had been the one to cut it down—and he only knew it was from her because of the short and simple note she had left.

_I will always be here for you. <3 _

The words meant nothing to him in his numb, angry, nostalgic, and sad state, though he knew they should. Niki had never done him wrong. They were both blameless victims in this shitty hand fate had dealt them. Tubbo couldn’t think of a damn thing he had done wrong during that war, except for chase after two people who could never truly give him a second glance. And he sure as hell couldn’t think of anything that Niki had done wrong, either.

“Oh, Tubbo…”

Tubbo’s eyes blinked open. He felt weak. He felt a hand brushed against his hair and he furrowed his eyebrows, pulling his head back by instinct before he lifted his head towards the voice. He squinted against the blur in his vision, and he wondered again; when was the last time he had taken care of himself? And how long had he been in this godforsaken house, with food rotting in his kitchen?

“My dear boy…”

His vision cleared. He saw dark brown hair, even darker eyes filled with sadness and grief. His heart skipped a beat. Was this Schlatt? How did Schlatt get in his house? He had the doors locked, the windows were locked too; he wouldn’t have been so fucking dumb as to break one. Tubbo would have heard. He would have—

Wait.

Schlatt didn’t have a trench coat.

“What has he done to you?”

The brown eyes were sad, so earnest, so true; he only knew one man with eyes so dark and so open. And as his vision cleared, he saw him. He saw the dark brown trench coat, the white shirt tinged with an almost rust-like color on the center, disappearing underneath the thick coat. If Tubbo was in his right mind, he would have thought the patch of color suspicious. But he didn't care. It was nighttime, it was dark in the room, but it was clear to Tubbo, and the beanie that kept the bangs tucked out of his face only proved to him who this man was.

He reached up, pale hands shaking, and they clenched the front of the trench coat.

“W-Wilbur.” His voice was hoarse, it sounded wrecked from all of the emotions that had been clawing him out from the inside until it just made him give up on living, made him give up on taking care of himself. But that didn't matter anymore! It would be fine! Wilbur was here! Wilbur was _home._ He was in Manberg— No, _L’Manberg_ again. He would make this all alright. He would help Tubbo come to terms with this, or, or maybe he would even have evidence that this was just some big ploy to get him under Schlatt’s claws. He was okay with being a hybrid. He could live with that. He just couldn’t live with being Schlatt’s _son._

_"Wilbur."_

The corner of Wilbur’s mouth curved up as he tilted his head and held both of Tubbo’s wrists in one hand.

Tubbo didn’t realize they had been tied together with a lead until Wilbur tightened the knot so suddenly, so tightly, that he got rope burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be rough. I'm sure you guys can kinda get a hint for what's gonna happen. Just, here are some warnings for the next chapter; Manipulation, referenced child abuse, gaslighting basically, attempted kidnapping, and overall just very very evil Wilbur.
> 
> But don't worry. It gets better :) It's just gotta get worse first.
> 
> ((Also, what's in the notes are meant to be like, placed after the title. For instance, this chapter's full line is "My dear boy, it's more than you can handle, isn't it?"  
> The summary follows the same rule, so the full summary is actually "Dear boy, your enemies are not who you think."  
> I just thought it was fun :3))


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you must run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW warnings for manipulation, gaslighting, child abuse, and overall just Wilbur being an ASSHOLE. This chapter is rough, but the next chapter will be much better, I promise you. I'm about done torturing Tubbo. For now :D

“Tubbo, please stop struggling. You’re making this much harder than it needs to be.”

“What are you _d-doing?!”_

Tubbo was scared. He was so scared. This couldn’t be real. This had to be some horrible nightmare.

“I’m doing what needs to be done, my dear boy! To get our country back, under the rule of its rightful leaders!” Tears welled in Tubbo’s eyes, streaming down his cheeks before he could stop them. Wilbur paused in the middle of dragging Tubbo across the wooden floor of his living room, blinking slowly down at the young teen. He crouched down to his height and cupped the boy’s cheek, brushing a tear away from his thumb. “Tubbo, what's the matter?”

“You’re scaring me!” Tubbo hiccuped, but he leaned into Wilbur’s touch regardless. It had been nearly a week since he had touched another human being, and it had been, what, over a month since he had seen Wilbur? Even though he didn’t understand why he was doing this, and he was scaring the shit out of him, he had been looking forward to seeing him and Tommy again ever since they were exiled from the very country they had built together. “W-Where’s Tommy?” He wanted Tommy. He’d untie him. He would make Wilbur realize what was doing was wrong!

“Oh, dear boy,” Wilbur cooed, “there’s no reason to be scared! Once we’ve got you out of this horrible place, it’ll be smooth sailing!” Tubbo blinked up at him and Wilbur ‘tutted’ and shook his head. “Tubbo, did you really think I wasn’t keeping an eye on my country? All of the news, the rumors—why, I’ve been giving a few of my own!” Wilbur laughed, but it didn’t sound like him. It sounded almost… unhinged. Tubbo was _really_ scared. He wanted Tommy. He wanted his best friend. “I heard about how you disappeared, how everyone heard your screams; I was certain that he was torturing you! But I couldn’t come and save you, you see? It would have threatened the cause too much!”

What? Since when did Wilbur care about a ‘cause’ more than he cared for his own people?

“And then you were being seen again, and sure, you were a little worse for wear, but you were still Tubbo! Good o’ Tubbo!” Wilbur grabbed both of his cheeks, pinching and pulling in such a harsh way it made Tubbo bat at his hands. Wilbur laughed and pulled his hands back, continuing his rambling. “And then, _then_ apparently, you had a whole moment with the man that calls himself Emperor!” He cackled, and it grated on Tubbo’s ears. “I mean, you punched him in the chest! I enjoyed the screenshots way too much! I was wondering what the hell was going on, and then, I didn’t have to! Apparently, that madman has this entire country thinking you’re his son! So, that's why I’m here, Tubbo!” He ruffled his hair. “If I kidnap you, then, Schlatt will have no choice but to waste resources trying to save you if he wants to save face with these brainwashed drones!”

“... K-Kidnap…?” Tubbo whispered, his heart pounding in his chest. There were so many red flags in that paragraph alone, and in the emotions whirling through his friend’s eyes. This couldn’t be Wilbur. He wouldn’t call the people of Manberg drones! They were still his people, the people they had fought to protect and free! Just because Schlatt was lying to him and had changed the country name—that didn’t change that! It shouldn’t!

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Tubbo,” Wilbur cooed, patting his cheek. His palm was rough, the force behind it heavy and stronger than it should be. It… It _hurt._ Wilbur was hurting him!

“T-The rope hurts!” Tubbo cried as Wilbur stood and grabbed the mentioned object. “Just— untie! I’ll come with you, happily! I don’t want to be here! I want to see you, and Tommy—!”

“I don’t believe you, Tubbo.”

Tubbo felt like he had been shot. Wilbur smiled down at him, but his eyes were cold. Almost angry.

“If you really didn’t want to be here, why did you stay so long? Why didn’t you come looking for me? Why didn’t you look for _Tommy?_ You’ve been a very _bad_ friend, you know, staying here and working for the very madman who ruined everything we had built! You’re _helping_ him ruin it, Tubbo!”

“No! That's not true!” Tubbo cried, then yelped when Wilbur yanked him forward. He tried to stand, but he was too weak. His knees hurt from being dragged across the floor. Why wasn’t Wilbur helping him?! Couldn’t he see that he couldn’t stand! Fuck! Why didn’t he just eat?! Why didn’t he take care of himself?! Why did he have to leave the White House?! “I wanted to go to you, I did! But I never— I didn’t have a chance! Schlatt was always keeping me busy, he was constantly giving me work, he was always watching me, he had _guards_ watching me!” It was true, he had seen them, in the shadows and at the corners, dressed as civilians and blended in with the crowds. They had been good, he imagined it took him maybe three, four days to notice them, but when he noticed one it was easy to see all of the others. He wasn’t as naive as everyone liked to think. “I wanted to find you! I did! But I just couldn’t yet! So I was— I was biding my time, I was getting information and dirt on Schlatt, to help you when I could escape and _find you—!”_

“Oh, would you be _quiet,_ Tubbo?!” Tubbo cried out as the rope was yanked on so hard he fell right on his face, yelping pitifully as his head knocked against the wooden floorboards. Ow…! That hurt…! That _really_ hurt…! “Whining and groveling aren’t going to get you anywhere! Get up!”

“T-That hurt…!” Tubbo cried, and the dam burst. Tears rushed down his cheeks, dripping off his chin that was bruised from the floor. His head hurt like a migraine was forming. His horns hadn’t benefited from all of this yanking around either. When was the last time he had put the cream on them like he was supposed to? God, how could he have fallen so far?! “Wilbur, you’re hurting m-me…! I want T-Tommy, I want to see—!”

“I don’t care!” Wilbur seemed to explode, fire igniting in his eyes as his passive face dropped away into a furious snarl. He grabbed Tubbo by the collar and yanked him up to his unsteady feet, making the teen wobble as he stared up at him with wide eyes. “I don’t give a shit if your little head hurts! Do you think you haven’t been hurting me for the past month?! Do you think you haven’t been hurting _Tommy?!_ I’m not taking you to see Tommy, because he doesn’t _want_ to see you! He doesn’t associate with traitors! This is what you fucking deserve! Now walk, or so fucking help me, I’ll give your legs a _reason_ to not work—! _GAH!”_

Tubbo flinched as Wilbur’s blood splattered across his chest. Wilbur released his collar and stumbled to the side, reaching up to grasp his shoulder which had been run through by a sword. The sword was yanked out before he could grab it, and Tubbo found himself standing on his own. It didn’t last very long, and his legs began to shake even harder before he went falling back on his ass. His head was spinning from everything that had happened so quickly, Wilbur screaming at him, yanking him to his feet so fast that his head spun, _threatening him,_ and then getting stabbed—wait. Who had stabbed Wilbur?

He lifted his head just in time to see a hand reaching towards him and he cried out and turned his head away, trying to scoot back away from them. But the hand grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him back across the floor away from Wilbur who was twitching in agony on the floor. They ignored how he cried out and grabbed at their wrist, almost clawing at them to try and free himself. He didn’t know who they were or what was going on. He wanted to be alone. He just wanted to be left alone! No Schlatt, no reporters, no war, no tyranny or democracy—he just wanted to be left _alone!_

He was pulled from his mini monologue when the floor underneath him changed from wood to cold marble, and when the door in front of him slammed shut he realized he was in his bathroom. He twisted his head around, trying to find the person who had drug him back when he heard a clatter and he looked over to see that his cauldron that he used as a sink had been shoved onto its side in front of the door. The ice-cold sink water went spilling across the floor, and he winced as it touched his skin. He flinched his hand back, then gasped when it was grabbed. A potion bottle was shoved into his hand.

“Drink.”

He looked up and his eyes widened.

Standing over him was another player, and they looked like nothing he had ever seen before. They wore black pants and a black hoodie, leather bands were wrapped around their wrists and their hood was pulled up. Their face was covered by a glowing mask that looked like something out of a futuristic cyberpunk dystopian. It glowed blue and red, shifting between the colors. It flashed for a bit and then turned a solid red before Tubbo’s very eyes.

_“Drink.”_

The voice was discombobulated, but Tubbo could tell they weren’t happy. Without thinking, he yanked the cork off the potion and chugged from it. The taste was bitter and it burned all the way down his throat, and when it was done he dropped the bottle to the floor as he practically coughed up a lung. The bottle shattered but he didn’t care. He was trapped. No matter what happened, no matter what he just drank, he couldn’t _do_ anything. He could get himself killed, somehow, but all that would do is put him through the painful respawn process for a bit before he’d spawn back in his bedroom, right upstairs. Wilbur would just have to wait for an hour, two tops, and then he would be right on him again. He could hope that someone would notice the message in the communicator, but it was in the middle of the fucking night. There weren't a lot of people awake right now. Not people that could help him, anyway. But it could leave a trail? Fuck, he couldn’t decide. He was scared. He was always so scared of having to respawn. It was always so painful and it would leave you drained for hours until you had gathered enough experience to temporarily fill the growing holes in your code. The holes would fill back up in a bit, but it usually took _days._

Wait. Where was Wilbur—?

_Knock knock._

“Tubbo?” Wilbur’s voice was easy and soft like he was smiling. “Tubbo, that wasn’t very nice! Going with the traitor who stabbed me! Why don’t you come back out?”

Tubbo stared up at the stranger in front of him with wide eyes, shaking. “W-What did you give me?” He whispered, trying not to be heard by Wilbur. The stranger stepped around him, walking to the door.

 _“Strength potion. You’re going to need it.”_ Tubbo blinked before he looked down at his hands. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t look as pale as before. He didn’t feel as sickly, either. Strength potions were like pure adrenaline. He had only had them once or twice. They were very addictive, Bad had told him once when they had all come to him for medical attention after a very tough battle. He had only given each of them strength once or twice to help them make it through the pain of their wounds until he could stabilize them. He didn’t know they could stave off starvation and dehydration, though. Then again, he supposed that adrenaline could make you forget just about anything if you drank enough

“Tubbo, come on out,” Wilbur cooed. “We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot! Please, allow me to amend that!” Tubbo stared at the door in terror, scooting back a bit. That didn’t sound like Wilbur. It was his voice, but his words, his tone… What the hell had happened to his friend? He heard something behind him and he looked over his shoulder. The stranger was opening his window, gradually and slowly so as to not make any noise. Tubbo slowly stood up, gripping onto his shower curtain. Slowly, the strength potion was leaking into his blood and giving him strength. How long would this last? Why did he have to drink it? Were they going to fight Wilbur?

“Tubbo!” Wilbur was gritting his teeth. He could tell. “Come on, now, this isn’t funny! Do you really think you can trust the guy that just stabbed me? He’s a stranger to you, Tubbo! I know him, oh, I _do,_ but he’s a filthy fucking traitor! You don’t want to be a traitor, _do you, Tubbo?”_

The stranger turned and held another potion bottle up to Tubbo. Now, he recognized this one. Speed. He grabbed the bottle and uncorked it, while the stranger reached up and tapped their fingers against the side of their helmet in rapid succession. The visor flashed the same purplish-blue color that the speed potion was, and a command in green text flashed across the screen. Tubbo’s eyes widened.

_/effect give @⨅ᒷ ̇/||⨅ᒷꖌ minecraft:speed 60 1_

Holy shit. Had he read that right? Did they just—

 _“Drink,”_ the stranger hissed at him in that voice, and he shuddered before he quickly chugged. The speed potion tasted better than the strength. It tasted sweet, like sugar. Made sense.

 _“Tubbo.”_ Wilbur’s voice was dark. The stranger stepped back and gestured to the window. Tubbo quickly swung his leg out of it, touching the ground with the tip of his foot before he swung the other foot through. He stumbled and fell to his knees. _“I’m going to count to three. You better open this door, or I’ll come through my damn self!”_

The stranger jumped through the window next. They landed on their feet and grabbed Tubbo’s arm, yanking him up. _“One.”_ The speed potion was beginning to set in for the both of them, Tubbo could tell because his entire body was vibrating and the stranger’s pale hands were beginning to shake.

 _“We’re going to the White House.”_ Tubbo’s eyes widened and he shook his head quickly.

_“Two!”_

The stranger glared at him. _“Would you rather Schlatt, or that madman?”_ As if to answer his question, Wilbur kicked the door down, sending the cauldron flying across the room into Tubbo’s shower. The glass shattered and Tubbo screamed.

 _“GO!”_ The stranger roared, shoving him forward.

 _“TUBBO!”_ Wilbur screamed.

Tubbo ran.

The stranger was right. If he hadn’t given Tubbo those potions, he wouldn’t have made it out of his backyard. As they sprinted down streets, through backyards, through twisting alleyways that Tubbo would have gotten lost in if it weren’t for the cyberpunk stranger, Wilbur was always behind them. He screamed and cursed Tubbo, called him the most horrible things. He called him a traitor, he called him a horrible friend, he said he was worse then Schlatt because Schlatt didn’t pretend to be on their side. Hot tears welled in Tubbo’s eyes and slid down his cheeks, made it difficult to see and run, but he didn’t stop running. He knew that if he so much as paused, he would be caught. For once, he didn’t want to be near Wilbur. This man wasn’t the Wilbur he knew. This couldn’t be the very same man, the gracious leader that had built up L’Manberg, who had protected them from Dream and loved them all. How could this be the same man?

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. This had to be some long, drawn-out nightmare. Why couldn’t he just wake up?

Wilbur wasn’t the only one chasing them. People leaped from the shadows, jumped down from the rooftops. Some were empty-handed. Others had weapons. They grabbed at them, tried to tackle to the floor, but Tubbo was too fast for them. He had spent an entire war dodging and weaving through arrows and swords, and those old instincts kicked in as he pumped his legs faster and faster with every turn. If he got to the White House, then he would be okay. There were twenty-four-hour guards there. If he could just avoid Schlatt, it would be alright. Then after, he would just… He’d leave. Fuck it. There was nothing for him on this server! He should have left after the election! He should have never joined, he should have never gotten in that war! It had all been for nothing! Everything had been for—!

He heard a shout behind him. He risked looking back, and then wished he hadn’t. The stranger had gotten hit with an arrow. When he yanked it out of his shoulder, Tubbo’s heart dropped. The tip was green. It was a poisoned arrow. He tried to stop, planning to run to the stranger’s side, but their masked head turned towards him and it turned red, just like it did back in the bathroom.

 _“Don’t stop!”_ They shouted. _“Keep fucking running!”_ They pulled out their communicator and typed something in chat, dodging under someone’s sword before he pulled out their own and cut them down. They disappeared in a burst of white pixels after a few hits, to respawn in a few hours. Tubbo didn’t want to leave them. They were helping him, and now they were going to die because of it. They would respawn, sure, but Tubbo couldn’t help but feel so overwhelming guilty. He didn’t want to leave them but he also knew he didn’t have a choice. They wouldn’t be able to keep up, not with constantly being damaged. Even with the potion, it was impossible. _“Go! Someone will be waiting for you! I can hold them back for a bit! I can buy you time!_

Tubbo was scared. He was so fucking scared.

_“GO!”_

He ran, again, while the stranger turned to do just as he said he would. He risked looking back when he had run a few yards, and then desperately wished he hadn’t. The stranger, his _friend,_ didn’t have the helmet _or_ their head as they collapsed to their knees before they disappeared in a burst of white sparks. Standing there was Wilbur, gripping a diamond sword as it gleamed with some type of enchantment.

“THAT WOULDN’T HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU WEREN’T SUCH A FUCKING _COWARD,_ TUBBO!” Wilbur screamed, and then screamed some more, but Tubbo tuned him out. He looked forward and ran, ran, ran, with all the tears rushing down his cheeks. They were farther into the city, and he could recognize businesses and homes. He was close. He was so close. He just had to push on a little further.

The potion was fading. The strength was going first, and he could tell because he could feel his stomach churning and his legs shaking. He was stumbling over nothing now, causing him to lose momentum. Wilbur and his people were getting closer and closer now, his screams and taunts were getting louder and crueler. Tubbo felt lost. His vision was fading. He couldn’t tell where he was anymore.

The strength potion went out, and then the speed potion ran out just moments later. His legs collapsed out from underneath him and he went crashing to the floor, sobbing pitifully as he heard Wilbur laugh cruelly at his fall. He dragged himself forward a few feet, but he didn’t go any further as Wilbur grabbed him by the hood of his hoodie.

 _Somebody, help me!_ Tubbo thought desperately, screaming when Wilbur yanked him back.

“That was a nice little game, Tubbo!” Wilbur hissed. “But I’m beyond tired of it! I’m taking you back, and you’re never going to see fucking daylight ever again—!”

_“GET AWAY FROM HIM!”_

Wilbur’s hand vanished from his hoodie and something warm splashed across the back of it. Arms wrapped around him tightly, yanking him up off the floor and against something hard. It took him a moment to realize it was someone’s chest, and that was only because of how it heaved up and down with someone’s heavy breath. He forced his eyes to open as he looked up, and he saw Fundy’s face. His brown’s eyes were bright with the same look of anger Wilbur had been wearing when he last saw him, only it was… Stronger. Primal. Fundy wasn’t angry, Tubbo dimly realized as he watched Fundy’s tail flick back and forth over his tail, roughly and quickly; no, he was _furious._ He had only ever seen it once or twice, usually in the very rare battles Wilbur would let his son fight in. It was puffed up like all of those times. It reminded him of a furious cat’s tail, readying themselves to go in for the kill. They were crouched on the floor with Fundy’s hand pressed against the ground, his other arm wrapped tight around Tubbo so his hand could grip his shoulder. His shoulders were tense, his back arched, his eyes hooded and glowing as he bared his teeth at his own father. Wilbur was gripping his hand as blood dripped from five, long cuts, and Tubbo finally saw the blood on Fundy’s fingertips that was pressed against the ground. Fundy had _claws?_ And _fangs?_ His teeth looked so sharper, sharper than Tubbo had ever seen them be.

Tubbo squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face as he hid it in Fundy's shoulder.

“If it isn't my traitor of a son!” Wilbur was completely off his rocker. His voice sounded totally unhinged, loud and unsteady, cackling between almost every word. “Protecting the other traitor, are you?! The walls weren’t enough, were they, my dear child?! You just had to take Tubbo too!”

Fundy narrowed his eyes before he parted his lips and let out a high pitch howl. It sounded more like a scream, and Tubbo wanted to cover his ears but he suddenly felt too weak. His body had pushed itself thanks to the strength potion, but now that it had faded, all of the adrenaline was fading and it was catching up to him now. He wished he would just pass out, just fall into unconsciousness and never wake up again. He didn’t want to face everything he had seen and heard today. Tommy didn’t want to see him? Wilbur thought he was a traitor? Fundy was getting ready to tear apart his own father, for what? For who? For _Tubbo?_ He was so sick of all of the pain, the bloodshed, the death, and the respawning. He didn’t want anyone else to get hurt because of him.

He just wanted to fade away.

He heard running footsteps, right behind Fundy. He peeled his eyes open and squinted through his dim vision. His pupils were small, light blue orbs weak with terror and pain. Someone was running towards them. Was it one of Wilbur’s people? Had they circled around them? He had to warn Fundy, but he couldn’t even open his mouth. Tears dripped down his cheeks and dampened the cloth of Fundy’s jacket. Fundy suddenly hunched over him, clutched him tighter to his chest as he wrapped both arms around him. He lifted him onto his legs so he was cradling him bridal style, trying to protect every inch of his body with his own. Tubbo grabbed at the back of his jacket, furrowing his eyebrows before he finally heard what Wilbur was screaming.

“—kill the both of you! I don’t need to kidnap him to make Schlatt _hurt!”_

No. No, no nonononnonono not Fundy; the stranger had been enough! Why was Fundy just sitting here, protecting him?! He wasn’t worth it! He wasn’t! He pounded his fist against Fundy’s back, trying to get his point across, trying to at least get him to turn around, but he knew he had barely done any damage. His hand fell, limp as it dragged across the grass. He looked at the figure that had been sprinting towards them and saw that there was more. As they came closer and closer, his fuzzy vision was finally able to pick up on their figure.

His eyes widened.

Schlatt was deadly silent as he leaped over Fundy and Tubbo, but when he ducked his head and rammed his horns against Wilbur’s chest, there was the sound of bones crunching underneath the impact that everyone heard. Wilbur was screaming again, but for a whole different reason. As he and Schlatt went stumbling to the floor, rolling across the grass, the group that had been following the President made it to Fundy and Tubbo. They crowded around them, and though Tubbo tried to look around them, he couldn’t see Schlatt and Wilbur.

“Let go of him, Archbishop, the doctors—”

“No!”

“Sir, please, the doctors can look after him—”

_“GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME! NO! TUBBO!”_

Tubbo was pulled from Fundy’s arms. He wanted to reach after the fox, but he couldn’t even lift his arms. Overall of the voices, he heard Quackity. He was trying to soothe Fundy, who was ranting and raving, fighting back against guards and Schlatt’s own bodyguards to try and get back to Tubbo.

 _“Stay away,"_ a booming voice reached over all of theirs, _“from my,”_ there was a sickening crack, _“SON!”_

Tubbo’s world faded into muted noise and a blur of colors. He finally shut his eyes and stopped fighting. He gave in just as a message popped up on everyone’s communicators.

_WilburSoot's head was crushed by JSchlatt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder who the stranger was.
> 
> {My dear boy, it won't be who you think.}


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you are loved.

Tubbo woke in spurts. Each time the scene changed. One moment people would be hovering over him, feeding him bittersweet potions, and the next he would be alone. But those moments alone were few and far between, and a few times he could hear someone walking into whatever room he was in before he would pass out again. He was tired. Very, very tired. He wasn’t sure he would never be fully rested. His body felt heavy, his head gave a dull ache that reminded him that he was still alive, and he felt a… presence.

The presence was difficult to explain. But he could tell they were strong, mighty was almost a good word for them. And they were close, but not too close. They were in the same room, but they weren’t right next to his bed. He had been moved a few times, judging by the fact that his surroundings had changed a few times, but that presence was always there. At least, it was nine times out of ten. It was there so much that Tubbo barely noticed when it wasn’t actually there. It was like it was imprinted on his senses, and when he didn’t feel it he felt empty and almost scared. He didn’t know where he was, but he did know he wasn’t with Wilbur. As he slept he could hear voices, and he could pick out Fundy most times and Quackity sometimes. He never heard Wilbur’s, or Tommy’s, and he was… he was thankful for that.

When he realized he was thankful for that, he felt such a strong rush of grief and pain that it woke him up. He peeled his eyes open, just like he had the past few times, but found that opened a little easier now. He glanced around slowly, trying to take his surroundings in. The room was dim. The curtains were pulled closed against the sun, but a few persistent rays still fluttered out from under the fabric. The window was cracked open, he could tell because the curtains shifted like there was a light breeze. He could smell the outside, too. The nice, springy undertone L’Manburg always seemed to have. 

_ But it isn’t L’Manberg, is it? _ he realized sadly. But he didn’t get time to think about that as something shifted. Underneath him. He fell completely still, blinking up at the ceiling. He was in his bedroom, in his bed, but what was underneath him? It was breathing. Was there a person? He looked down at himself and found he was propped up against something rock-solid, and arms were wrapped securely around his waist. He stared down at the arms, at the hands that were pressed against his stomach. They looked familiar. The arms were bare, a bit tanned from the sun. There was a ring on their hand. The ring itself was familiar, but… Who's…?

“Tubbo!” A hushed voice whispered, and Tubbo blinked and lifted his head. Someone was at the end of the bed, stood up from a chair that had been placed there. Their hands were pressed on the bed, staring at him with eyes wide with excitement and relief. Their face… It was so familiar… Why couldn’t he put a name to their face? “You’re awake! Long then a couple of seconds, anyway!” They rushed to his side and took one of his frail hands carefully, cradling it in both of theirs. “Fundy! Fundy, wake up, Tubbo’s awake!”

The figure underneath him snorted and shifted, and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Brown eyes peeled themselves open and looked at him, foggy with the dregs of sleep, before they widened and immediately became alert. “Tubbo!” The man, Fundy, yes, Fundy, that's why the ring was familiar, Niki had given it to him as a birthday gift—

Fundy was hugging him tightly, burying his head into his shoulder. Tubbo gave a soft wheeze and Fundy quickly loosened his hold, pulling his head back to look at him again. “You gave us such a big scare! You’ve been sleeping for nearly two days!”

“I keep doing that, huh?” His voice was scratchy, his mouth was dry, and his lips felt chapped when he licked them. Fundy smiled wider, sitting up a bit more, shifting them both into a more comfortable position. Tubbo thought it was a bit strange that Fundy was holding him so closely, but he decided he didn’t mind. Fundy smelled nice, and his touch gave him a sense of comfort he hadn’t felt in a long time. He leaned his head against his friend’s shoulder and heaved out a shaky sigh. He felt a hand in his hair, scratching his scalp gently, and he lifted his eyes to see it was… Quackity. That's right. That's who he was. He remembered now.

He dimly registered that that strong presence wasn’t nearby, but he didn’t get to think about it as his stomach suddenly seized in pain. He coughed in shock, grabbing his stomach and his throat. Fundy stiffened against him. “What's wrong?” The fox asked, his eyes wide with panic as he cupped Tubbo’s cheek. “What's wrong?! Does something hurt?! Quackity, get a doctor!”

“Hang on, hang on.” Quackity pulled his hand back. “Calm down, just for a second, Fundy. Tubbo?” Tubbo looked at him, eyes watering. “Are you okay?” He shook his head. “What hurts?” He tried to speak but all that came out was a pathetic croak and cough, so, feeling very silly, he pointed to his stomach. He whimpered as it ached again and Fundy tightened his grip on him. It felt like it was twisting in on itself. “Are you hungry?”

Tubbo paused. He thought about how long he had been sleeping, and how he hadn’t exactly been taking care of himself even then. Finally, he nodded. Quackity smiled at him, sadly but kindly. “Just as I thought. He’s not dying, Fundy. He’s just hungry.” He stood up. “I’ll get us some lunch. I think we could all use it.” Fundy nodded, still holding Tubbo close.

“Be quick!” He demanded, and the Vice President laughed but nodded as he left. He shut the door carefully behind him, and Fundy let out a shaky sigh. “Sorry, kid… I wanted to have some food waiting for you, but we really weren’t sure when you were gonna wake up. And you know how Quacktiy is about wasting anything.” Tubbo nodded. He wanted to joke that Quackity would reuse toilet paper if he could, but his throat was too dry, so all that came out was a croak of agreement. Fundy winced and scratched his scalp gently, carefully, with the pointed end of his nails. “I do have some water, though. It’s room temperature, but it's something!” Tubbo perked up and he nodded, leaning after Fundy’s hand when he pulled it out of his hair. Fundy got a glass of water from the bedside table—which he recognized as his own, and he finally realized he was in his bedroom in the White House again—turning the lamp there on its lowest setting before he gave it to Tubbo. Tubbo’s hand shook, but with Fundy’s help, he was able to drink.

When all of the lukewarm water was gone, Tubbo watched as Fundy put the glass back on the bedside table. He looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes were heavy, his hair was a mess, and his clothes were ruffled like he had been lying in bed with Tubbo for awhile. His jacket was nowhere to be seen, which was strange. He had never gone anywhere without it. That and his hat, though he supposed there wasn’t any need for the hat indoors. Especially when one was in bed. Why did he look so tired? It wasn’t because of him, was it? Tubbo made a soft sound and laid his head on Fundy’s chest, then blinked and pulled it back. Fundy’s chest was like solid rock. Was that what he felt pressed against his back? He distinctly remembered being pressed against it when Wilbur was right in front of him. Did he have that many muscles? He noticed Fundy smiling at him shyly.

“It’s my binder.”

Oh. Oh, well, that explained it.

He laid his head back down and let out a shaky sigh, shutting his eyes. They were a little sore. Fundy reached up and began to run his fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly against his scalp as his breaths lifted Tubbo’s head up and down. Tubbo was pretty sure he dozed off or at least drifted between sleep and consciousness. He felt totally and utterly relaxed and safe. He hadn’t felt that in so long…

The feeling didn’t go away when Quackity came back. In fact, it only seemed to grow. He came with a stew, which was broccoli and cheese. It smelled delicious. He said something about how Tubbo was going to have to be on broths and soupy foods for a bit until his body could handle hearty and huge meals like steak. Tubbo supposed that was what he got for practically starving himself. Quackity brought him and Fundy sandwiches and water, while he brought Tubbo milk. Tubbo didn’t even feel childish like he usually would have, he practically chugged the nice, cold drink. He coughed like hell after, but it was worth it. Especially when Fundy rubbed comforting circles into his back and Quackity pushed his bangs from his face, gently reminding him to take it slow.

He ate and drank the soup much slower, and the ache in his stomach was soothed. He didn’t finish all of it, which made him sad. It was really good. The cooks here in the White House were fantastic. He swore that the head cook had to have sold their soul to be so damn good. As he ate, Fundy and Quackity talked about everything that had happened while he was gone. They skirted around what had happened with Wilbur and instead caught him up on some developing politics. They told him about a new bill Schlatt had passed that gave everyone universal health care, and how Fundy was planning a festival to try and cheer up everyone’s spirits. They were doing it to celebrate Schlatt’s third month of being President, but the leader  _ hated  _ the idea. He hadn’t actually given Fundy permission to start planning this festival, but he was still gonna do it. Everyone needed some cheering up, he told Tubbo firmly. Even the President himself.

They stopped talking about the President when they noticed how Tubbo’s eyes dimmed.

Soon, Tubbo felt tired. Very tired. His eyes were getting heavy and sore from being open for so long, so he shut them and yawned as he laid his head on Fundy’s chest again. The solidness still surprised him, but now that he knew what it was, he didn’t reel back or ponder on it. He just shifted against Fundy, settling down until he was comfortable. He felt Fundy rub his back while Quackity patted his head, lowering their voices to hushed whispers so as not to disturb him. He wanted to tell them to not stop on his account, he really liked their voices and the strange sense of peace and comfort they gave them, but he found himself too exhausted to fall asleep. So he drifted off listening to their whispers, with a full and happy stomach.

When he woke up, he was lying on his back again. Fundy and Quackity weren’t anywhere to be seen, and he couldn’t help but feel saddened by that fact. The peace of sleep was chased off by frustration and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter. Weeks ago, he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as them. He had refused to even interact with Fundy, and only dealt with Quackity when he needed to. Which had been a lot, since he was the Secretary of State and all. He was able to avoid Fundy, with him being the Archbishop and all. He didn’t know what it meant outside of Manberg, but he knew here, Fundy’s duties were all about the people and their happiness. That was why he was the one planning the festival. Tubbo’s job never dealt with that, at least, it hadn’t so far. But the point was, before, Tubbo had wanted nothing to do with them. He had almost hated them. But now, here he was, lying in his bed in the White House,  _ missing  _ them.

Was Wilbur right? Was he a traitor?

The thought struck him so hard it knocked all of the air out of his lungs. He coughed in shock as tears welled in his eyes, gripping his blanket tighter in both hands. Tubbo had turned his back on them, hadn’t he? He hadn’t run after them, even with all of the guards on his ass. He was terrified of outing them, of accidentally helping Schlatt figure out where their base was, but they could have figured something out. He could have lost them. He could have gotten his hand on an invisibility potion, or, or  _ something…  _ He could have done  _ something…  _ But he hadn’t. Because he was afraid. Because he was just a kid, and  _ why should I have to do all of that? _

The thought struck him just as hard as the traitor thought did. He was a kid. He was just a fucking kid who had fought in too long of a rough war. He had bled, he had cried, he had died countless times for a cause that Wilbur had drilled into their heads again and again. Wilbur had sent him and Tommy out again and again while sheltering his own grown son in the walls they had built. Was Tubbo really the traitor, or was it actually  _ Wilbur?  _ He had said all the right things to them, Tubbo realized, by promising peace, love, and a family. He offered them all something they desperately wanted, even Eret. When the now-King had betrayed them, Wilbur had called him selfish, said that nothing would ever make him happy unless he owned it all. Tubbo remembered hating him, and then missing him, and hating that he missed him.

Now, he missed him, and he couldn’t blame him for betraying them. He had escaped Wilbur thanks to it. He had seen it, hadn’t it? The lies, the manipulation, that unstable look in their ‘great’ leader’s eyes. Now, Tubbo wished that it hadn’t taken him so long to see it himself. He wished he had escaped with Eret. He liked to imagine that Tommy would see it too, and he’d escape with them. But that was just a pointless dream, wasn’t it? A simple daydream that would have never happened, because Tommy thought the world of his big brother. He would never see him for the man he truly was. He would be ensnared by the honey words that dripped from Wilbur’s lips until he realized he wasn’t getting what he wanted.

Tubbo felt sick at the thought of honey for the first time in his life.

He was crying. The tears poured down his cheeks as he shook under his blankets. He kicked them off of him, suddenly feeling too claustrophobic. He felt trapped, held down. He wished everything would just stop, and go back to normal. He wished Wilbur wasn’t a bastard. Did Tommy really not want to see him? Did he really think he was a traitor? What had Wilbur told him? What had he  _ done? _

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his cheek. A thumb wiped away one of his tears, in the same way Wilbur had done. But it didn’t feel like Wilbur. The palm was calloused but gentle, the thumb hesitant but loving. And he felt that presence, he realized. That mighty aura that had been by him through most of his brief bouts of consciousness. He forced his eyes to open and glanced up, his breath heavy and hard to handle. His vision swam with tears, and the room was dark. It was night, though he wasn’t sure what time. The curtains were pulled open and the full moon’s light fluttered through the panes, across the floor, and over the floor, against the figure’s back that stood beside his door. It blacked out their features, but he could see enough.

Broad shoulders, arms firm with muscles, and ram horns that curled inwards beside his head. As Tubbo stared, a cloud moved out from in front of the moon, and a streak of moonlight fell over dark brown eyes that stared down at Tubbo with an emotion the boy was too young to grasp. In the future, when he would have his own child, he would understand what Schlatt was feeling as he stared down at his aching son. But for right now, all he felt and understood was the warm comfort settling over his instincts, smoothing down the aching in his chest. He didn’t lift his head from his pillow, he didn’t open his mouth to talk; he wasn’t sure if he would ask Schlatt to leave or ask him to stay, so he let him decide for himself. He just looked forward, at the window on the wall to the right of his bed. Schlatt smoothed his bangs out of his face, and he shut his eyes and leaned into the touch.

A lot of things weren’t okay. Not even this was truly, totally okay. He had so many questions, so much anger, and sadness; but he could forget about it for tonight. He needed comfort. He needed love. He had never felt a father’s love, though he had always wondered what it was like. When Tommy had talked about his father, and he had met him a few times before everything went to shit, he had always been jealous. He always wanted to know what that was like.

Was this what it was like?

They laid there in silence. Neither of them said anything for a while. Tubbo was the one to break the silence, with a simple; "I want to see Eret. When I'm better."

Schlatt's fingers paused in his hair, and for a moment, Tubbo had an intrusive thought that he had said the wrong thing and that Schlatt was going to smack him, yank on his hair, yell at him. But the ram did no such thing. Once he was over his supposed shock, be it from his question or just the mere fact that he had talked the boy wasn't sure, he continued to stroke his hair.

"Very well," Schlatt whispered, and that was that.

He didn’t drift off back to sleep until it was just an hour from sunrise. Schlatt lingered for a few more minutes, smoothing his hair back one last time before he finally left his son’s side. He slipped out of his room and shut the door carefully behind him, then walked to his office as he smoothed his hair back. His hands brushed against his horns and he gave a soft sigh, pressing his hands against the back of his head as he stared out the windows he passed by. The sun was beginning to rise as he reached the door to his office, and he could still feel the warmth of Wilbur’s blood and code when he smashed his head open on the White House’s front lawn. A few of his younger bodyguards had been stiff and apprehensive around him ever since. Good. They would figure out soon that they didn’t need to worry about anything so long as they didn’t touch his son.

He pushed the door to his office open, stepped inside, and turned his back to the room as he shut the door.

_ “Good morning, Mr. President.” _

He stopped. He stared at the doorknob in front of him before he looked over his shoulder. Someone sat in his chair, shifting it back and forth on its wheels. One leg was draped over the armrest while their elbow was propped up on the other, their head… helmet leaned against their hand. As Schlatt stared at them, the Stranger used their foot that was on the floor to kick the chair out from behind the desk. The wheels slid across the wooden floor easily enough and stopped on a dime when they pressed their foot down. The color of the Stranger’s helmet was a calm light blue, shifting around like bubbles in a lava lamp.

_ “We need to talk.” _

Their voice was discombobulated, it would be low one minute and then high the next. Schlatt turned away from the door, facing them as he planted his feet carefully. He prepared himself for an ambush, eyes narrowed as he looked the Stranger up and down.

“Who the hell are you?”

The Stranger sat up, putting both of their feet on the floor. They stood up as they reached up and pulled their helmet off, holding it against their hip as Schlatt’s eyes widened.

A boy Tubbo’s age stood there, staring at him with one red eye. Their other eye was made of code, the iconic green ones and zeros that flickered in and out of existence. Below that eye, a chunk of their cheek was missing, replaced by more ones and zeros. It was a boy, a young boy just like Tubbo, Schlatt realized as he took in his youthful but masculine face. He was skinny, skinnier than what could be healthy, and was covered head to toe in black fabric. A black hoodie, leather bands around his wrists, and heavy black boots that were caked with dirt and grass. The only skin he could see was his face and his hands.

_ “My name is ZexyZek.”  _ His voice was still disoriented even without the helmet, and Schlatt could see why.  _ “But you can call me Zexy.” _

_ “We have some things to talk about, Mr. President.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) I hope you enjoyed it. All of your comments make me so happy. To those who guessed right, aka read the galatic I used to hide Zexy's name; what the fuck, why are you such nerds, and good job!
> 
> And I know, you probably definitely weren't expecting Zexy and it's probably throwing off the groove, but, trust me, he's not going to have a major role. He's there to fill something that needs to happen later in the series, with how my plans are going right now. I picked him because he was always one of my favorite YouTubers when I was younger, and I always enjoy writing him. It reminds me of 2012 when I like, eleven, and I was pumping fanfic out every day like my life fucking depended on it. Kinda like how I'm doing now. I hope you guys enjoy it regardless!

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter is going to be rough. I'm sure you guys can kinda get a hint for what's gonna happen. Just, here are some warnings for the next chapter; Manipulation, referenced child abuse, gaslighting basically, attempted kidnapping, and overall just very very evil Wilbur.
> 
> But don't worry. It gets better :) It's just gotta get worse first.
> 
> ((Also, what's in the notes are meant to be like, placed after the title. For instance, this chapter's full line is "My dear boy, it's more than you can handle, isn't it?"  
> The summary follows the same rule, so the full summary is actually "Dear boy, your enemies are not who you think."  
> I just thought it was fun :3))


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